


Miscellaneous (Shippy)

by Maculategiraffe



Series: How Life Goes On, The Way It Does [12]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Aftercare, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fellatio, Hand Jobs, Is what that warning refers to, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Power Play, Sex, Shame, Vaginal Sex, especially smut, i'm so bad at tagging things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-02-03 01:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12738345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maculategiraffe/pseuds/Maculategiraffe
Summary: And this one is for the miscellaneous romance/pairing-focused ficlets!  It might even get steamy in here!I'll note specific pairings and specific warnings and approximate explicitry-level on each individual chapter.If you have prompts, let me know here or on tumblr (maculategiraffe at) and I'll see what I can do.





	1. I don't have any questions, I don't think it's gonna rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([The National, "Daughters of the Soho Riots"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1HExEHcWlk))
> 
> Spoilers for the main series through Remnants, starting.... nnnnnnow.
> 
> This one was written as a birthday gift for theragnarok, who asked for "mushy Danse/Michael" and "praise kink." (And kindly gave me permission to post it here.) 
> 
> No sex, but some... sexuality? For sure. Kisses, touches, arousal. Light power play. Precious robot boys reinventing the wheel because neither of them has ever had a romantic relationship before and they both have traumatic histories and there's no such thing as the internet. References to said traumatic histories.

He has a room of his own, here.  A small one, to be sure-- barely enough room for a bed and a footlocker, a little end table with a lamp, and himself-- and not part of this fortress’ original design.  The floor, ceiling, and two of the walls are stone; the other two walls are made of salvaged wood, nailed together with more of an eye to structural stability than pure aesthetics.  But still.  It’s his own room.  His own _quarters._

It was one of the near-infinite number of things that didn’t make any sense, when he was first brought here.

He’s still not sure it makes sense-- not what he’d ever considered sense, before-- but he’s more or less caved to the internal dream-logic of the Castle.  Everything naturally tends towards chaos; civilization brings order, which means civilization is inherently artificial, which means, apparently, that you sometimes have to accept that it’s being made up as it goes along.

He said something like this to Michael, once, and Michael pointed out that they were both “made up” by humans, that their own bodies and minds represent an improvement, in terms of order and beauty, on the naturally occurring human body.  

Michael has a lot of self-esteem, for a synth.  It must be different for coursers.  Or for synths who didn’t accidentally join the Brotherhood of Steel after their memory wipes.

So: this room, built by humans, in this fortress built by humans, housing himself, built by humans, and his--

\--he isn’t sure what to call him, still.  Lover?  But that sounds ridiculous, and anyway, it seems likely that there are technical qualifications for the title, ones that he isn’t sure they’ve gotten to yet.  Sometimes he worries they’re going too slow.  That Michael, while outwardly the soul of patience and gentleness, is actually growing very tired of Danse's hesitations.  Or, on the other hand, that he is about to wake up on the concrete floor in Listening Post Bravo and marvel at his own sleeping mind, its capacity to conjure up a reality where Nora Bowman reappeared in his life, subdued his tormentors without harming them, declared herself his honorary mother, and introduced him to another synth, a physically splendid male specimen, who immediately took charge of him and eventually began kissing him.

How likely does any of this sound, really?  How likely does it seem that Michael is standing in here--

\--there’s barely room for both of them to stand, at least one of them should really be on the bed, but Danse is still waiting for Michael to indicate what he wants.  Maybe he’s tired-- he doesn’t get sleepy, but he does get tired, and he looked half dragged to death when he got home, although the interlude in the library with the rest of the family seems to have revived him a bit-- and doesn’t want anything, just to tell Danse to lie down, pull his blanket up over him, maybe kiss him on his scar.  Where it makes him shiver, still, every time.  Michael’s lips warm on his forehead, and the hot flare of memories, every time, a formless blur of pain, fear, humiliation, and helpless misery, lasting for a second, then fading into nothingness.  Not nothingness: their opposite.  Peace--

\--smiling at him.  

_I missed you._

He wants to say it, but what if it sounds too needy?  It already goes against the grain for Danse to be the one left at home, in comfort and safety, with the civilians and the children, while his-- while someone else goes out and braves the wastes, without him.  He understands why it’s necessary, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.  Being left behind.  But it also doesn’t mean he should say it.  Whine about it.

“I missed you,” says Michael, his voice husky, and his arm’s around Danse, pulling him close.  Not too hard, not too fast.  He doesn’t use his strength to handle Danse roughly; he did, once, gripped Danse’s arm a little too hard to put him where he wanted him, and Danse whimpered, wordlessly, and couldn’t quite answer when Michael asked whether he was hurt.

Michael wasn’t impatient with him, though.  He says he understands; he says that, as a result of Danse’s treatment by the Brotherhood, whom he calls “your former associates,” Danse has been conditioned to respond in certain ways, which is neither his fault nor his failing, simply a fact, like his scar.  Michael says synths, like humans, are highly responsive to behavioral conditioning.  Courser training was also heavily dependent on it.  Although more scientifically calibrated for the accomplishment of its goals.  That’s partly why they’re moving slowly.  They’ve both been conditioned not to respond well to sudden moves.

Michael’s lips make his heart beat faster, when they touch his skin-- his cheek, the line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his lips-- but they don’t frighten him.  Or if they do, it’s a completely different kind of fear than the sick, exhausted terror he’d known since the _Prydwyn_ ’s demise.  It’s a blood-pumping, thrilling fear, the kind that makes him feel he’s glad he’s alive after all.  That if he does die, after this, it will have been worth it.  

“I missed you,” Michael says, again, close to his ear, his breath hot there, and it’s as if a watershed of feeling has been reached; Danse starts shaking.  They’ve already established that’s not a danger signal, though-- he freezes and whimpers, when his conditioning is confusing him, but he doesn’t shake or cry-- so Michael doesn’t stop what he’s doing; he says, one arm tighter around Danse now, holding him close against his own body, “Did you miss me?”

“Yes,” Danse whispers, hoarsely, and his hands come up to grip Michael’s arms, making fists in Michael’s sleeves, clinging a little.  It’s all right.  It’s the right answer.  Michael doesn’t ask him trick questions, doesn’t try to confuse him on purpose, or embarrass him, leave him bewildered.  People used to do that a lot, even when everyone thought he was a human, even when he outranked them.  He knows he’s a little more literal-minded than most people.  He could feel people being impatient with him, with his seriousness, his singleness of focus.  He could feel it with Nora Bowman, too, at ArcJet, just before she turned him down.

Michael is different, though.  When Michael wants something of him, it’s always clear what.  Michael wants him to be brave, and good, and he’s starting to think, based on the strong positive responses he’s been getting from Michael, that maybe he actually is both of those things.  The way he used to think that he was (at least, even if he wasn’t quick, or witty, or persuasive), before everything changed.

“I missed your company,” says Michael, and his lips kiss Danse’s neck, just under his earlobe, “and your body.  Lie down.”

He helps Danse, who’s still shaking, and whose fists are a little tightly clenched on Michael’s shirt, to obey.  He’s gentle, patient as Danse unclenches, and he puts Danse on his back, which might mean a certain kind of touching, or it might mean just talking, Michael beside the bed and Danse under his blanket until he nods off, except that Michael just said _your body_ , which means--

“I'd like to see you,” says Michael, and then waits.

He knows this is difficult for Danse, which means both that if Danse says he can’t, or doesn’t want to, it’s all right, and that if he can, Michael will be especially proud of him.  For doing something difficult, to give Michael pleasure.  And he can; he even wants to.  Not just to please Michael-- although that, too-- but because he wants Michael’s eyes on his body, wants to hear his breath quicken a little, the way it does, sometimes.  The way Michael looks at him-- it isn’t the same as being naked in front of the Brotherhood, his genitals swinging as he crawled, his rear thrust out like an animal’s, the vulnerability and indignity and _ridiculousness_ of his exposure.  All those years, without respite.  Never allowed to cover himself, even just for a moment.  To hide.

He doesn’t have the poise or verve to make this a striptease.  He doesn’t want to tease Michael, anyway; he wants to please him.  He starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Michael’s breath hitches in his throat, and Danse unbuttons faster, his fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons.  

Michael helps him slide his arms out of the sleeves, and then waits a moment, to see if Danse will reach for his jeans now, but he doesn’t-- would rather not; he’s already being brave, and he thinks maybe it’s all right to be a little less brave than the maximum amount, on any given occasion-- and Michael doesn’t seem to mind.  He reaches out and runs his hand over the hair of Danse’s head.  It’s gotten a little longer than the Brotherhood kept it, but he tries to keep it clipped reasonably close, for neatness’ sake.  Military style, Nora calls it, although she’s more military than he is, now, and her own hair is growing out into an untidy crop of spikes and tangles.  

“Thank you,” says Michael.  “May I touch?”

There are things he doesn’t ask explicit permission to do any more, although he still does them gently and carefully, and if Danse pulls away, he stops immediately.  Kissing, above the neck.  Touching, ditto.  Touching above the waist, through clothing.  Before touching anything that would normally be covered by Danse’s clothing, though, he still asks.

“May I turn over?”  Danse asks, because he’s already shaking and his nipples make him nervous-- it isn’t that it doesn’t feel good, when a touch brushes past them, but he’d rather they weren’t a factor at this exact moment; he’s already feeling a little overstimulated, just from his exposure, and Michael’s gaze and voice-- and Michael says, “Of course, dear heart.”

_Dear heart._   It’s such an odd, old-fashioned endearment, and his actual beating heart speeds up every time he hears it, as if it knows its name.  

He rolls over onto his stomach, folding one arm under his pillow to prop himself up slightly, so he can still watch Michael.  Michael reaches out a hand and touches him, his naked back, with a flat palm, and he shivers hard and gasps.

“You’re magnificent,” says Michael, and his fingers crook, his nails scratching lightly over the surface of Danse’s skin.  Danse moans aloud-- it feels so good that it must be a sin, or at least a protocol breach.  He’s a synth, a machine, made to serve the Institute as a slave; why would they build him to be capable of feeling like this?

But his moan, his shivering, are speeding up Michael’s breathing.  And Michael is everything he should be.  If he’s pleased, this can’t be wrong.

“I love to hear your voice, Danse,” Michael says, his own voice a little ragged.  “Under my hand.”

When Michael says it, his name doesn’t feel like a lie. 


	2. and instructions for dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The one I got ain't the kind you go wandering on." -Romanced!Hancock dialogue with flirty NPCs
> 
> ("the sex-- which would be great, it was always great, no complaints there--" -Ruby, ch. 2)
> 
> Nora and Hancock, behind closed doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darla_my_Darling and boomslang both requested Nora/Hancock, so here's a snippet for you all. 
> 
> Rated XXX for XXXplicit. Bit of power play, again. M/F, hot ghoul-on-human action... I'm not very practiced at tagging smut, guys :P let me know if there's something I should add here, OK?
> 
> ([Magnetic Fields, "The Book of Love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkjXr9SrzQE))

It's not like just getting to touch her isn't intoxicating enough, and getting touched back. The way she grips him, the sounds she makes when he's on the right track, and the talk-- she likes to talk and so does he, _yeah yeah right there, you like that? I love it, I love you, faster, wait, wait? yeah just a sec, OK, yeah, like that? just like that, God I love you---_

\--just the basics, though, they've never gotten fancy, with the talk, the-- concepts, as it were. There's some things that used to be repertoire, that he's pretty goddamn sure won't play with her. _Naughty girl, dirty girl, slut_ , that whole line of rhetoric, or the subsection _good girl, sweet girl._ (Or _boy,_ of course, or just _baby_ or _doll_ , depending.) Not Nora.

( _Mine,_ when he's feeling strong. _My Nora._ Sometimes she says _yeah_ , sometimes she says _yeah, yours,_ and he has to bite the ragged edge of his mouth, to keep from coming before she's done with his cock. He can help her finish other ways, of course, but he loves when she comes around him, sweet slick heat and muscles clenching, and her exhale, quiet, _ahhhhh_ , as he comes like she's knocked him over, spilled him out.)

But he doesn't want to bore her, so sometimes he does try to switch things up. Like take it slow, make her squirm and-- well, not beg, she doesn't do that. _Goddamn it, John-- Yeah? --you wanna pick up the goddamn pace-- You want it faster?-- Yes_ , in a did-I-fuckin'-stutter voice, and he does as he's told.

Then there was the time he tried to get a little rough-- not hurt her, he doesn't think she'd go for that either and he's not about to try unless she brings it up first, but he thought he'd try pinning her down, put her wrists above her head, see if she liked that, and next thing he knew he was on his back and she was kneeling on top of him, one of her hands pressing down on his shoulder, the other resting lightly on his throat.

He lay still, praying he hadn't fucked up beyond repair, ready to apologize and grovel, if he'd crossed a line. He shouldn’t have tried it without asking first, he might have stirred shit up, scars, bad flashbacks. Not of anything Saint Nate of Blessed Memory had done, surely-- but she's got more history than just him.

But she wasn't upset, he didn't think, looking up into her face-- she wasn't smiling, exactly, but not mad, either. Eyes sparkling down at him, and she said, "You wanna wrestle, Mister Mayor?"

"Thought that's what we were doing," he said, not moving, looking up at her. He could look up at her forever.

"Felt like you were trying to win," she said, and her hand gripped his throat a little tighter. Not cutting off his air, just making herself felt. 

"Already won," he said. "Soon as you kissed me for the first time."

"Mmm," she said, thumb moving now to tickle him lightly under the chin. "Sweet talk."

"'S true," he said, as she slid her hands down his naked arms (she likes him to be naked, all the way, likes to be naked herself, isn't the least bit shy about her body, or about his either. Likes them pressed up against each other, nothing in between. He isn't complaining) and to his wrists. She gripped them in her strong hands, put them up over his head. 

A hot flush went over him, and his cock, which had flagged a bit when he thought he'd fucked up, got right back up to attention.

"You like that?" she asked, smiling down at him. 

He nodded, barely breathing. God, yes, he liked it. He's been with folks who liked it rough from him and those who wanted to get rough with him, see if they could make an impression on his leathery skin, and there's something to be said for both, but Nora, _Nora_ , holding him down, leaning over him, her breasts hanging down--

\--he lifted up and turned his head to try to get a nipple in his mouth, grazed it with his outstretched tongue. 

"Stay," she said, and took her hands from his wrists, and he stayed. 

He'd let her tie him or cuff him, if she wanted-- he's let people he trusted less do more-- but it's even better the way she did it then, does it now sometimes, puts his hands up and tells him _Stay,_ and he stays, trembling with the strain sometimes, while she does-- whatever she wants. Straddles his cock or his face, takes him in her mouth. Her hands all over him, her body everywhere but in the hands she's forbidden him to use.

She never walks away from him, never even turns away. Never leaves him hungry. He'd beg if she did, babble pleas for mercy, but she must not want to hear those from him, because she stays close.

It's been a marathon session tonight; his shoulders are cramping. She fucked his face, let him devour her until she came, and then rode his cock until she came again, and then finished him off with her mouth, and now she's finally taking his arms down from above his head, saying, "Hold me."

His arms are weak, but holding her, clutching her close, not worrying that he's smothering her or acting too needy (he knows that's a turn-off, he tries to be cool and confident and arrogant and careless and sexy; it used to be easy, before it mattered much), because this is what she told him to do, is all he wants to do.

"God, I love you," she says into his ear. "So fucking much."

"Love you," he says, hoarser than usual. "Kiss me."

She kisses him, right away, mouth open and eager; he tastes his own come on her mouth, just like she must taste hers on his. He's been with smoothskins who were squeamish about his lack of proper lips, and some who were fascinated by it. Nora isn't either one, not really; she kisses his mouth the way you kiss the mouth of someone you love. Your husband's mouth.

(Although presumably Saint Nate had lips.)

(It's embarrassing to be jealous of a dead man, especially now that she wears John's ring on her left hand and Nate's on her right, but he can't help it. Nate being dead means he'll never fuck up badly enough to lose Nora's love. John, on the other hand...

Well. He won't either. He just... won't.)

"I needed that," she says, when she breaks the kiss, and nuzzles closer, lays her head down on his chest. "All that. God, John. You always make me feel so good."

"Not that I'm complainin'," he says, because he really, really isn't, "but how come you needed all that?"

"Oh, just." She kisses his collarbone. "Everything. Sometimes I feel like running most of the Commonwealth and also being the mother of an entire generation of synths is... a lot."

He grins, exhales sharply to let her hear the smile. "Ya think?"

"I can do it," she says. "I just need-- well, you. To keep me going. "

His breath hitches and halts for a moment. She says-- stuff-- sometimes, like it's anything else, normal conversation, instead of the most important thing he could possibly hear.

"Glad to be of assistance," he says, when he can get his breath again, and she says, "Oh, love," and lifts up her head, presses her smooth cheek against his gnarled one. "You save me. All the time."

"Same," he says, and she laughs, happily, and says, "Liar. You told me I ruined your life."

"That too," he says. "Gave me a new one, though. Better one."

"You make me feel so good," she says again. "Sleepy?"

He is, but he doesn't want to sleep unless-- "You?"

"Yeah," she sighs, and lays her head back down. "I love listening to your heart beat."

 _It beats for you,_ he doesn't say, because it's too cheesy, and she already knows. 

He waits until she's asleep, her head heavy on his chest, her breath regular. And then a little longer-- breathing to the rhythm of her breath, maybe he can go with her where she's drifted off to, look after her there too-- before he lets himself fall asleep.


	3. but somehow that always seems to be enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([Magnetic Fields, "Sweet-Lovin' Man"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjWt9HZly-c))
> 
> Takes place during chapter 32 of "Refreshment." Michael/ Danse, rated-- let's say Quite Explicit

Michael is so sure of himself, guiding an obedient Danse gently deeper into the maze, never making a false turn, that Danse thinks he must have planned this all out ahead of time, and when they reach a little nook at what isn't quite the center of the maze, his suspicions are confirmed. There's a blanket spread carefully out on the grass, Michael's travelling pack set down beside it. 

Michael stops at the edge of the blanket, wraps his arms around Danse, and kisses him on the mouth, tenderly, hungrily. Danse kisses back, holding on hard to Michael's solid strength, the bulwark of his certainty that this is right, that Danse deserves this. This enjoyment; this joy.

Michael draws him down onto the blanket, Danse still hanging on, with his hands to Michael's arms, with his mouth to Michael's mouth, and then Michael's unbuttoning Danse's shirt, carefully, button by button. Still kissing him.

He's careful with the buttons. He doesn't yank or tear, isn't impatient with Danse's clothing, any more than he's impatient with Danse. He's always careful, now, ever since the time Michael tossed his shirt aside a little too carelessly, flung it to the floor, and Danse cried out. 

(Michael apologized, retrieving the shirt and putting it in Danse's hands, and was patient and tender when Danse couldn't answer his questions, wrapping Danse up in his arms and cradling him until Danse was capable of explaining. Now, if he does take anything off Danse, he does it slowly, and folds it with meticulous care, and watches Danse watching him set it somewhere out of harm's way.)

He isn't taking Danse's shirt off now, just parting the edges, pulling his mouth away from Danse's mouth so he can kiss down Danse's neck, down towards the hollow of his throat, making Danse arch and gasp and whimper with abandon, without fear, without worry about decorum or propriety or self-discipline. It's just him and Michael. If he does anything wrong, Michael will correct him. 

Michael's hand comes to rest-- lightly, lightly-- on Danse's groin, through his jeans.

Danse gulps for air, as Michael whispers, "Shall I take my hand away?"

"No--"

Michael knows-- he doesn't know everything, but he knows more than anyone else knows. Even the Brotherhood officers who kept Danse-- M7-97-- _Danse_ , in that bunker, they don't know, they can't have known, how much he hated himself for every need, every desire, how much he hated the Institute for making a machine that not only thought itself human but had the audacity to hunger for resources meant for humans. To need-- dizzyingly-- food, water, rest. To crave-- unchangeably-- covering, succor, mercy. And, worst of all, to-- so visibly, so irrationally, so helplessly-- _harden._

Who would build a robot with sexual impulses? Who would be _evil_ enough to create a thing that looked like a man, and make it capable of-- not only capable of, but unable to prevent-- that kind of disgusting, perverse, sickening--

"I love you," Michael murmurs, his hand still lying lightly on Danse's denim-covered groin. Lightly enough that he asks nothing, demands nothing, coaxes out no more of a response than his kisses and caresses have already awakened. But not so lightly that he can't feel the swelling, the _arousal._ "I love you, Danse. I love you so much."

Danse clings, gropes for Michael's mouth with his mouth, and Michael kisses him again, greedily. Michael _wants_ , wants _him_ , and Michael is a synth, too, and he isn't disgusting. He gets hard-- Danse has felt it, and seen it, too, when Michael asked permission to undress in front of him-- and it isn't ugly, or wrong. It's-- _hot_ , not shame-hot but flame-hot, flush-hot, Michael's skin on his hot the way humans have never been as warm as he is, have always felt just that little bit chilled. Michael's arms around him, stronger than humans'. Big hands, hard with callus, that have never hurt him, never held him down when he couldn't help (no matter how much he wanted to be good) struggling. Michael can be hard, without hurting him.

"May I see you?" Michael whispers, and Danse can feel himself flush hotter than ever, because-- they're _outdoors_. Between leafy walls, yes, no one is here, but-- someone could find them, someone could see, someone who isn't Michael. 

"It's all right to say no, dear heart," says Michael, and because it's all right to say no-- because he almost does say no, can imagine himself saying it, and Michael kissing him more gently, pulling him a little upright, his hand moving back above Danse's waist-- and because the softness of Michael's touch on his hardness is both reassuring and _maddening_ , because he wants, he wants-- he wants whatever Michael will give him, because Michael gives him better things than he knows how to ask for--

"Yes," he says, gasping. "Yes-- take--"

Michael's fingers undo the button of his jeans with a swift flick, and then the zipper, and then he tugs at the waistband, and Danse trembles.

The touch of air on his-- member-- would be occasion for panic if Michael's approving gaze weren't on it, too, almost as tangible as the air's kiss-- 

\--and then Michael leans down, and really does kiss it, presses his lips to it as tenderly as he does to Danse's mouth, has to Danse's forehead and neck and palms, as if there's nothing appalling or unnatural about it at all. As if there's no part of Danse he doesn't cherish. Even the throbbing, needing, for God's sake _leaking_ , part-- seeping fluid Michael must taste, as his lips close softly around the first few inches of Danse's length, the head of it, enveloping him. Michael's _tongue_ , God in heaven, laving his tender skin as if he's _delicious._

But he can't bring himself to-- finish-- in Michael 's mouth, anyway. It's too-- something. Brazen, maybe. Presumptuous. Michael says he wouldn't mind, but Danse still wouldn't dare.

"Please," he begs, and Michael's tongue swirls again, and he groans, and pulls back. Michael stops, takes his mouth away. "Please let me-- please--"

"What?" Michael's a little breathless; he sits up, wiping his mouth unselfconsciously. "What do you want, dear heart?"

Danse reaches out, and Michael smiles, undoes his own jeans and slides them down, freeing his own hard member. 

"What do you want?" he asks again.

Danse gets down on his knees and elbows, his jeans and underwear pushed halfway down his legs-- it probably looks ridiculous, but he'd rather that than be completely naked-- and crawls between Michael's legs.

He kisses the hot, soft skin, presses lips there reverently. He hasn't always been able to make himself feel properly grateful for the alleged privileges accorded him by his superiors, but for this, he doesn't have to try. He just _is_ grateful, that he's allowed to be here, do this. Take Michael's erection in his mouth, taste him, lick and suckle and tighten his lips around the shaft, lean forward and forward, gripping Michael's hard-muscled thighs, listening to Michael's harsh breathing. 

He feels a touch on his head, fingers sliding into his hair, waits for them to tighten, guiding him, setting the pace, but they don't. Michael's just-- petting him.

"My love," he whispers, hoarsely, as Danse tries unwisely to contain Michael's entire length, and coughs, not quite gagging. Michael starts to pull back-- he doesn't like it at all when Danse gags, it concerns him more than seems strictly necessary-- but Danse hangs on, keeps going. He loves this, loves doing this for Michael, making his breathing ragged, making his thighs tense, making him harder and harder between Danse's lips, against his tongue, his own erection aching between his legs, brushing maddeningly against the ground and his jeans, and he's damned if he's going to stop before--

Michael groans softly, spasms, and Danse swallows convulsively, keeps sucking until Michael pushes his head back and grips him under his arms, hauls him up into his own arms. 

And kisses him on his mouth again, making Danse gasp. He isn't sure why it seems so scandalous to be kissed on a mouth that just finished doing-- that. Michael's the one who should mind, though, and if he doesn't, Danse isn't going to be the one to turn away from his kiss, or to pull away first. 

"Thank you," Michael murmurs. "My dearest. You're too generous, my Danse. I asked what _you_ wanted."

"I did--" He's hot in the face, shivering at the admission, but Michael has him close. "Want that. I-- like it."

"I know, " says Michael. "Do you think I'd allow you to do it if you didn't? But I didn't bring you here to take my own pleasure and leave you aching."

Danse had assumed as much, but something about the way Michael phrases it makes his breath catch, and Michael turns to inspect his face closely.

"Oh?" he says, and Danse, too late, turns his face to bury it in Michael's shoulder. "Would you like that, do you think? Let's try it, then, sometime, and see. No, not now. Not when we're-- deployed. I want you focused on your duty, not your--"

He wraps his hand around Danse's erection, pulls. "--desire. Shhh--"

Danse wants to be quiet, wants it desperately, to obey Michael and to keep the rest of their family from hearing what's being done to him, and it should be easy-- he used to be so well trained to silence that it took real effort to make any noise -- but it isn't easy. It isn't the same. He's been trained not to draw attention to his own suffering, but this is the opposite of suffering, and he doesn't have nearly as much practice with that. Michael is teaching him, but he's still a neophyte, a mere initiate, where he was once a star paladin of pain.

Michael shifts Danse in his arms until he's in a position to clamp his free hand, hard, over Danse's mouth.  
The pressure might feel punishing, but he knows he isn't being punished. His own hands are free, and if he pushed on Michael's hand-- either one of them-- Michael would take it away. But he doesn't. One hand is keeping him from groaning loudly enough to alert everyone in the park, and the other is making him want to do exactly that.

Michael grips him, firmly, and pulls, again and again, building speed gradually, and Danse squeezes his eyes closed as the pressure and heat mount and gather. He can smell Michael's skin, couldn't mistake him for anyone else this close, even if anyone else had ever touched Danse like this, his hands so firm and careful and inexorable. So intent on bringing him pleasure, on undoing him, scattering his control to the winds, yet containing him, like his power armor, close and safe. Michael's lips on his neck, his ear, his temple, Michael's breath hot on his skin, whispering things-- _sweet love, my darling, my boy--_ and his hand doesn't stop, _handling_ Danse, till all the blood in his whole body is inside Michael's hand, till he bucks involuntarily and Michael holds him fast and _brings_ him, and kisses him, and holds him, as he shudders and ripples and falls still, limp, and Michael takes his hand away and kisses his swollen-feeling lips. 

He kisses back, eagerly, gratefully, for what seems like a long time, slowly coming back to himself, his fingers and toes tingling, flexing both as the blood returns to them. If there were a hurry, Michael would let him know, so he's not worried; he lets himself sink into Michael's arms, limp, shaky, flushed. Held, beloved, dear. Kissed and kissed and kissed. 

Before he's tired of being kissed, but after he's, realistically speaking, ready, Michael takes his mouth away. Shifts Danse in his arms, and then out of them, onto the blanket, and turns to his pack. Danse, sitting there with shirt unbuttoned and jeans undone and pushed down, half naked, becomes aware, suddenly, of being-- a mess. Sticky, sweaty. Dirty. Filthy. Exposed. Is Michael going to--?

He is; he turns back to Danse with one of the same large, soft, worn bandanas he gave Danse to wear around his head, covering his scar. He has his canteen in the other hand, and is pouring clean water on the cloth, wetting it carefully, hardly spilling a drop.

"This will be a little cool," he tells Danse, before he begins, very gently and tenderly, to wash Danse.

The wet cloth goes over his skin, without undressing him further; Michael rinses it several times with fresh water, as he washes Danse's skin clean, everywhere-- his face and throat, his chest, his belly, his genitals, his thighs-- and then, with a fresh cloth from his pack, rubs his wet skin dry. Most of his seed spilled out onto the ground; Michael pours water on the spot, and covers it with earth and leaves, and rinses and dries his own hands, before he begins to help Danse dress again-- his jeans pulled up and zipped and buttoned, his shirt buttoned and straightened, Michael's fingers smoothing lightly through his hair, as if to reassure him that he's presentable again.

Then he holds the canteen to Danse's mouth, and Danse drinks deeply, grateful for this consideration, too-- he wouldn't have thought to ask, but the pure water tastes so good. Michael keeps tilting the canteen to Danse's mouth, so Danse doesn't hesitate to finish what's left in it. Michael wouldn't offer if he minded. 

He takes back the empty canteen, and smiles at Danse, the quick, incongruously sweet, small, shy smile that changes his face, breaking up grim lines that seem carved in stone when his expression is at rest, making him look-- for a moment-- soft and vulnerable. As if Danse could hurt him.

(Ridiculous, but still. Danse hasn't forgotten, won't forget what Nora said to him, on their party's return from Somerville Place. Sweet, odd, alarming Nora, awkward and earnest, gentle as she always is with him, and worried, too.

_Look out for Michael for me. I know he's been looking out for you, but you've got to-- kind of-- look out for him, too, OK? I know he seems tough, but-- You'll be good to him, yeah?_ )

"Thank you," he says to Michael, and Michael smiles more broadly, and his cheekbones acquire a slight dark flush, and his eyes lower, as Danse adds, "You take such good care of me."

"I try," says Michael. "You are-- very precious-- to me."

"I know," says Danse, and Michael's eyes flick back up, bright and sharp, and for a moment Danse thinks he's annoyed-- does he think Danse is being presumptuous, insolent?-- but then he sees the curve of Michael's lips as he says, "Should I stop telling you, then?"

"No." Danse reaches out, and Michael reaches back, takes his hand. He's so warm. "Please don't."

"I would prefer not to," says Michael, adding thoughtfully, "For the first fifteen years of my existence, the idea of speaking those words-- to anyone, synth or human-- would have been inconceivable to me."

"Will you tell me for the next fifteen years?" Danse asks, bold with happiness, and Michael says, "More than that, I hope."

"How many?"

Michael pauses, as if he's actually calculating. Looks down at Danse's fingers, twined with his.

When he speaks, it's to say, "In the Institute, we believed we were building the future. I believed it. That the future would be better. But I never-- looked forward to it. I thought of it with-- determination, and with satisfaction, I suppose, but not with-- joy."

Danse lifts his free hand, moves it to place it gently, lightly, firmly-- as Michael touched his groin earlier-- over Michael's heart, as if to feel the joy there. Calculate how it measures against his own. 

Michael's other hand comes up, rests over Danse's, pressing it against his chest.

"It's only a muscle," he tells Danse. "Semi-synthetic, semi-organic tissue. Reinforced, and self-sustaining. Not subject to the same random design flaws and breakdowns as a human's. The same as yours. But still subject to-- the unexpected."

Danse's _hurts_ , aches and swells, the way he'd think a robot's shouldn't, if he didn't have Michael's example. Michael's pride in his own design, and the unexpected needs and desires-- joys-- it turns out to be able to bring him.

"I love you," he says, and Michael says, holding his hand hard over a speeding heart, "I love you, too, my Danse."


End file.
